


Time Flows

by LadySlytherin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Dark!Harry, M/M, Rating: NC17, WIP, gryffindor!draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:34:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySlytherin/pseuds/LadySlytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy always knew who and what he was: a Malfoy; a Slytherin. When he's branded with the Dark Mark at the end of his Fifth Year, it's nothing he hadn't expected; nothing he hadn't prepared for. Draco knows what's expected of him and he's fully prepared to do whatever is necessary to see his family through the war.</p><p>Then, a discussion with his mother sets his mind racing. What if the necessary thing is <i>not</i> what he'd always assumed it would be? What if what's necessary is to sacrifice everything he's ever known? Everything he's ever believed? Everything he's ever <i>been</i>?</p><p>When the world you've always known is gone, and everything you believed you were is shattered, how do you go on? Who do you trust? What is left? Nothing, except the truth of who you were always meant to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What Is

Narcissa Malfoy made a soft, soothing hum low in her throat and stroked aloe over Draco’s brand; she was kneeling on the floor in front of the settee he was seated on. “I’m so sorry, my darling.” She whispered when Draco cried out and turned his face away to try to hide his tears. “I cannot risk putting any sort of potion on it; there’s too much Dark magic in the Mark.”

 

“It’s okay.” Draco rasped hoarsely; his throat was not yet recovered from the screaming he had done while being punished for Lucius failing their Master. “I’ll live, Mother.”

 

Tears gathered in her celestial blue eyes; it was destroying her to see her only child in pain. Narcissa whispered suddenly. “How I wish…” She stopped, shaking her head. “Never mind, Draco. You’re right; you’ll live.”

 

“Never mind what, Mother?” Draco was instantly curious. Though he knew his mother loved him, they seldom spent a lot of time together. And even less-frequently did she say anything of real importance to him, rather than simply giving him a quick hug and asking after his grades and Quidditch. “Tell me what you’re thinking, Mother; please.”

 

Narcissa sighed and seemed to deflate; with her fair skin, platinum-blonde hair, and pale blue robes, she looked like a forlorn water-nymph. Like Echo, who had wasted away pining for the vain Narcissus that was her namesake. “You do not know our family well, Draco. There are many reasons for that. But you remind me greatly of my cousin, Sirius.”

 

Draco blinked, feeling confusion wash over him. “Sirius Black? What are you talking about?” He knew, of course, that Sirius was his mother’s cousin, but she had never spoken of him before. “Wasn’t he a psychotic blood-traitor? How am _I_ like him?” Draco was bristling with indignation.

 

Narcissa’s lips curved into a wan smile; she had known Draco would react that way. She had counted on it, in fact. “You do not know the whole tale, Draco. He is…he _was_ a complicated boy and, though I did not know him well once he was grown, I should imagine he was an even more complicated man, even before his time in Azkaban.”

 

“I don’t understand.” Draco admitted, cradling his branded arm protectively against his stomach. “If you didn’t know him well, how can I remind you of him?”

 

“Sirius was a lovely child. Mischievous, clever, precocious…and utterly without remorse. He had a vicious streak to him and a natural ability to charm everyone he met.” Narcissa had a fond smile on her face; it wasn’t hard to paste it there, either, since what she was saying wasn’t _precisely_ a lie. It was just...a selective truth. “He was exceptionally fond of my sister, Andromeda. The two of them were quite close, despite the six years age difference between them. And the whole family doted on him. Even Bella was known to give him a pat on the head or slip him sweets when Aunt Walburga wasn’t looking.”

 

“Aunt Walburga…” Draco said the name in a murmur. He had a vague recollection of the woman he had met only a very few times, when he was very little; of a dark, gloomy, miserable house and a shrill, cold, thin woman who had criticized everything Draco did.

 

“Sirius and Regulus’ mother…you met her a few times, when you were quite young, before she died. I do not know how well you remember her.” Narcissa sighed quietly and explained. “She was a cold, stern woman whose sole concern was the Black name and heritage. She was born a Black and married her cousin, Uncle Orion, so that she would not have to lose the name. It meant everything to her; more than any person ever did.”

 

Draco felt his curiosity rise; his mother was right that he did not know most of his family. And he was terribly curious about those he didn’t know. “So what does me reminding you of Cousin Sirius have to do with what’s happening now?”

 

Narcissa’s eyes went to the window and she seemed to lose herself in thought. When she spoke, her voice was quiet and thoughtful, and it almost seemed like she was talking to herself. “When Sirius got to Hogwarts, we expected him to follow us into Slytherin. All of us girls had gone, after all, as had the rest of our family. And Sirius was so much a Slytherin. Then, on the train, he met James Potter. And James avowed himself a Gryffindor, so Sirius asked the Hat to put him where his new friend would be.”

 

“And the Hat _listened?”_ Draco demanded; the very idea was an affront to the Sorting. If anyone could just demand any House, then the whole thing was a farce!

 

“To Sirius? Of course.” Narcissa smiled at the memory, her eyes softening for a moment; though inside she was cringing at the way she was twisting history, she knew it was necessary. “He _was_ brave, you know. Just not in the normal way. There was cleverness to his schemes, but he rarely had the nerve to carry them out without secrecy and stealth. James had nerve enough for the both of them, though, and Sirius learned to borrow it from his best friend. So he grew braver and stronger with each passing year, until he was finally strong enough to break free from our family.”

 

Draco wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. “So…so you’re saying that he was brave to start, but being a Gryffindor made him even braver?”

 

Narcissa nodded, her eyes still slightly unfocused as she dwelled on memories and decided on the best way to use each of them to her advantage. “You must have seen it with Harry Potter, Draco. Those around him growing stronger, braver, more daring than you’d ever have expected.”

 

And Draco thought of Hermione Granger, who was such a stickler for the rules, starting up an illegal group to teach other students. Of Neville Longbottom, scared of his own shadow, facing down Death Eaters in the Ministry, including the woman who had tortured his parents into insanity – Draco’s own aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange. Of every sniveling Hufflepuff and pacifist Ravenclaw that took up arms with Potter in Granger’s little club, then stood up to Umbridge and the Inquisitorial Squad during the previous year. Of every person who seemed just that little bit stronger and braver and _better_ when they stood _with_ Potter instead of against him.

 

He nodded slowly, his eyes wide, and whispered. “Everyone around him…they all get like that. Braver. Stronger. I don’t think I ever realized before…”

 

Narcissa’s lips twitched slightly as Draco responded just as she’d hoped, then she said kindly. “It’s an easy thing to miss, if you aren’t looking for it, Draco. But James was much the same way. Sirius could never have defied Aunt Walburga and run off at sixteen if he’d not had James standing behind him, ready to help.” She suddenly locked her eyes on her son’s and added with a deliberately edge of sorrow. “I had hoped, when you started Hogwarts the same year as him, that you might befriend Harry Potter. That you might become a Gryffindor like Sirius and learn to be brave. That you might grow strong enough to make the choices that I didn’t dare to make myself; the choices I still don’t dare to make.”

 

Draco swallowed hard and rasped fearfully. “What choices, Mother?”

 

Narcissa’s crystalline blue eyes filled with tears once more and she whispered back. “To defy your family, as I could not defy mine. To turn your back on our superiority and pride, as Sirius so brashly did. As my own sister, Dromeda, did.” Squeezing her eyes shut against the words she was saying in the hopes of saving Draco, Narcissa added. “I wanted so badly to be at Dromeda’s  wedding, you know, but Aunt Walburga forbid it and I didn’t dare to defy her. Sirius snuck out of school with James to go, though. He refused to let her stand without family.”

 

“You cannot imagine my shame and guilt that I was not strong enough to go as well.” She took a shuddering breath, reminded herself that this was for the sake of her child, and continued. “I also longed to be at her daughter’s naming; to see my sister just once more; to meet my niece, if only for a moment. You were not yet more than a dream to me – a longing I had for a child of my own – when Nymphadora was born.” Narcissa’s eyes dropped to her hands and she whispered. “I have never met the girl, but I hear she is an Auror and clever and sweet and beautiful. And my heart aches that I did not get to hold her as a child; that I have never spoken to her nor sent her a birthday gift nor even acknowledged that she shares my blood. But Aunt Walburga forbid any contact and even once she was dead I found I could not break her edict.”

 

Narcissa stopped talking to draw several shaking breaths, then spoke again. “But only Siri was ever that bold; that brave; that strong. I never was. I couldn’t walk away. I couldn’t make the right choices. I could never manage to do the right thing.” Narcissa smiled sadly at Draco. “And I had hoped, in some part of my heart, that you would be like my cousin. That you would have a Potter to lend _you_ courage and strength, so that you could make the choices I never could.”

 

Draco was confused and upset and hurt; he didn’t understand what his mother was saying. Why she suddenly wanted him to be someone else; someone and something he had never imagined being. “You don’t like that I’m a Slytherin?”

 

“Oh, Draco…” Narcissa sighed softly again and reached up to stroke a hand over Draco’s baby-fine hair, smiling sadly. “I love you, precisely as you are. But I want what is best for you.” This, at least, was pure truth and the words spilled easily off her tongue. “I do not want you to end up in Azkaban or dead. I do not want you to suffer under the Cruciatus Curse or feel the pain of the Mark as you are summoned. I would not have you terrified in your own home.”

 

Suddenly touching two fingers lightly to her temple, Narcissa said. “I’m sorry, darling. I have a migraine of a sudden. Please, don’t mind my ramblings. I’m not well today.” She gave him a tired smile and patted his cheek before standing. “I _do_ love you, Draco. And I only want what’s best for you. But what is, is, and there’s nothing we can do to change it now.” And with those words, Narcissa prayed Draco would do what she so desperately wanted him to do; she prayed he would save himself, no matter the cost.

 

Draco let his mother kiss his cheek, dutifully kissing hers in turn, then bid her to rest until her head felt better. Then he sat in the quiet of his sitting room, considering what his mother had said. _‘What is, is, and there’s nothing we can do to change it now…’_

 

Except that maybe, _just maybe,_ there was.


	2. What Was

Draco was miserable. Christmas in the Highlands - even in the southernmost-part of the Highlands - was cold, wet, and unpleasant at the best of times. When one was hiking through the snow for seven hours, Scotland in December was absolutely insane and utterly horrible. No one should ever do something so stupid, and Draco was cursing himself. Not silently, either. Out loud. Quite viciously. In several languages.

 

He had his broom, which was all well and good, but he could only use it in certain areas. Such as when he wasn’t walking through trees that were too close together to fly through. Or past Muggle towns. Or anywhere where one of those Muggle auto-mo-biles might go past.  And he had left any area that fit that stringent criterion behind about three hours earlier.

 

On the upside, according to his calculations - and assuming his Point Me spell was working properly - Draco was nearing his destination. He was walking to a  recumbent stone circle (also known as a Dance) called Lochalsh - the closest one to Hogwarts. It was outside of Kyle of Lochalsh,  near the little village of Balmacara. And Draco was just eager to get there so he could finally complete the ritual he’d spent the last six month researching and planning down to the tiniest detail.

 

Another fifteen minutes passed, and Draco finally puffed into the clearing where the standing stones formed the Dance. He laid his Nimbus 2001 on the frozen ground just outside the Dance, then entered the circle and approached the large, recumbent stone. He ran his fingers lightly over the words carved there. They looked like mere scratches; short lines dug deep into the stone at random. But Draco was fluent in nearly a dozen languages and could pick out key words in more than a dozen more besides. And this was a language he knew very well. Gaelic, written in the Ogham language. In Romanized letters, it read: _‘Domhan fanacht. Sreabhadh Am. Déithe faire.’_

 

Draco let his fingers dance over the words and whispered softly. “Worlds wait. Time flows. Gods watch.” The letters sparked under his fingers, then glowed softly. Within moments, the glow spread to encompass the entire recumbent stone; a gentle golden light, like a candle flame. A gentle hum of magic resonated through the stones, the ground, and the very air surrounding Draco. Each of the stones began to glow as well, starting with the two flankers (one on either side of the recumbent stone) and spreading to the next, then the next, then the next, until the whole circle was lit by the muted light. Draco took a trembling breath; he’d woken the Dance, and now there was no turning back.

 

Moving into the center of the stone circle, Draco drew his wand and began to chant. Wind whipped around him, the world began to spin, voices screamed in his ears, and everything went bright and dark and bright and dark and on and on in a seemingly-endless cycle until he had to close his eyes or vomit. He felt the ground fall away from under his feet, but he kept his eyes closed and continued chanting, determined. He would not hesitate; he would not falter; _he would not fail._ Everything depended on this. _Everything._

 

Then the ground was suddenly solid under his feet, the wind vanished, and the air went still and silent around him. Draco’s legs gave out under him as a wave of nausea rolled over him, and he sank to the ground in a graceless heap. He took several deep breathes to settle his stomach, then slowly opened his eyes. He was still inside the Dance, and the sun was still below the horizon, but there was no snow. He pushed himself up to sitting and ignored the way the world tilted sickeningly when he moved.

 

Draco got awkwardly to his feet, feeling like his legs had turned to jelly but determined not to waste any time. He wasn’t sure how much he _had,_ so he needed to make use of it all. It was summer-warm now, rather than winter-cold; far too warm for his heavy, fur-lined cloak and the hat and scarf he wore. Draco shook his head to clear it, then pushed himself into moving. He staggered out of the Dance and towards the trees. He needed to get out of sight of anyone who might be around; he couldn’t afford to be seen. Not by anyone who didn’t absolutely need to see him, anyway.

 

Once he reached the trees, Draco began searching for a place to stash his winter outerwear. Since it was summer now, he certainly wouldn’t need it and it wouldn’t do to draw attention to himself with the unusual clothing. He spotted a hollow in a tree and grimaced. Though Draco was loathe to put his expensive clothing in someplace so dirty and disgusting, he also knew he didn’t have much choice. So he shed his hat, his scarf, and his cloak and shoved them into the dark, dingy hole in the tree.

 

Then he walked back to the clearing - and the Dance - and drew his wand. Puffing out his cheeks, Draco drew on the small amount of courage he had. Which admittedly wasn’t much, but Draco had discovered over the six months of planning out this entire scheme that he was actually far braver than he’d ever realized. Sneaking _into_ the Restricted Section, sneaking _out_ of the castle, plotting to break laws that he actually believed in and understood the reasons for, and deciding to defy everything his family stood for and everything he’d always believed wasn’t for the faint of heart. But Draco had done all of those things and more, and he’d done them without flinching.

 

So Draco stretched his wand-arm out in front of him, then drew it straight up, over his head in an abrupt gesture. Then he quickly took three steps back and waited for the Knight Bus to appear. When it did, it still nearly hit him. Which didn’t surprise Draco, since Ernie wasn’t the best driver, but it still ticked him off. If the Knight Bus wasn’t full of so much magic, Draco had a feeling it would have crashed and been destroyed a while ago. As it was, Draco tamped down on his temper - which often reared its head when he was nervous - and growled, stomping onto the Bus.

 

He tossed the required fare at Stan and snapped coldly. “Diagon Alley. _Quickly_ , if you please, as I’m on something of a schedule.”

 

Stan quirked an eyebrow and turned to Ernie. “You ‘ear that, Ern? ‘E’s on a schedule, ‘e is!” Then he snorted and rolled his eyes, saying condescendingly to Draco. “It’ll be near to five hours, it will, afore we reach London. You’ll just ‘ave to be patient.”

 

Draco growled again and spat. “I’ll be sleeping until then, on the upper-level, so be sure to wake me when we’re a half-hour from London. I want to be wide-awake when we get there; not groggy.”

 

Without waiting for a reply, Draco turned on his heel and stormed up the tiny, spiral staircase until he reached the third floor of the Bus. He lay down on his back on the lumpy, purple-covered bed and folded his arms under his head. As he stared up at the ceiling, struggling to make his mind quiet enough to sleep, he instead reflected on what he was doing; what he was planning. The entirety of existence hinged on “linchpin events” - things that affected hundreds of other things in an ever-widening spiral.

 

And one of those linchpin events in Draco Malfoy’s lifetime was the moment he met Harry Potter in the robe shop. It led to the moment on the train when Potter refused his hand. It led to the moment they were each Sorted. It led to every single confrontation he and Potter had had after that. The flying lesson that earned Potter his spot as Seeker; the moment he followed Potter to Hagrid’s and saw the baby dragon; the detention in the forest where they saw the Dark Lord feeding on a unicorn...and those were just some of the things that had happened in their First Year. Their entire time as rivals could be traced back to that single moment, in Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, when Draco had unknowingly alienated Potter.

 

Draco’s last thought was he finally drifted off to sleep was simple; it _had_ to be fixed.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Draco got off the Bus on Charing Cross Road, just outside the Leaky Cauldron, wide-awake and suddenly more nervous than he’d been the entire time since he’d made his decision. He hurried through the dark and dingy pub as quickly as he could. Draco kept his head down and moved as stealthily as he could manage, considering that his platinum hair was like a shining beacon in the gloomy atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron. He made it through with only a few glances and pushed out into the sunlight of the back alley, where he drew his wand once more. Draco glanced down at the piece of hawthorn and dragon heartstring; if everything had gone as he’d planned and he’d made it here in time to fix things, this crucial piece of himself wasn’t actually his yet. Which was a disturbing thought and one Draco had no intention of dwelling on.

 

Draco tapped the correct brick, then stepped into the early-morning hustle-and-bustle of Diagon Alley during prime, school-shopping time. He cast his mind back to what he’d done his first time shopping for Hogwarts things. There had been the chance meeting with Potter in the robe shop, of course, when his parents had been off doing other things. His mother, as he recalled, had been perusing wands based on what she knew of her son in the hopes of narrowing down the possibilities before he got there. Which meant that if he was on schedule (which he dearly hoped he was) then he would _not_ be in Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions, nor would he be in Ollivander’s wand shop. He hadn’t yet chosen an owl this early into shopping, nor had he picked up his books or his things for Potions class. In fact, the more he thought about it, Draco was beginning to think that being dropped at Madam Malkin’s had been the first thing that had happened that day.

 

“No…” Draco muttered to himself, ignoring the people all around him; they were unimportant. “No, not the _first_ ; the _second._ Father stopped at Gringotts…” The Slytherin quickly moved towards the large white building, praying his memory was correct and that the Knight Bus trip hadn’t taken longer than he hoped it had.

 

Suddenly, just a few feet from the steps leading up to Gringotts’ double doors, Draco froze. Everything in him simple _stopped._ It was as though his mind had no control over his body. There, standing alone, was the eleven year old version of himself, precisely as he’d hoped. This…this was the moment of truth. The single moment in time when he was out in the open, unattended, and capable of being influenced. Most of his life before Hogwarts had been spent at the Manor and _all_ of it had been spent highly-supervised. If he didn’t manage to talk to himself now, Draco knew he wouldn’t get another chance. He _had_ to fix the moment he’d met Potter in the robe shop and, consequently the moments the followed – both on the train and at Hogwarts.

 

There his younger-self was, unarmed and unattended, looking around with practiced-boredom that he knew (because it was, after all, _himself_ he was watching) was feigned. Inside, he had been excited and jittery and ready to burst. _That_ was what Potter needed to see. The innocent, excitable, enthusiastic self he’d hidden under icy disdain and haughty arrogance, even at such a tender age.  But Draco’s courage seemed to be all used up. He  felt like he’d swallowed a ball of ice and it sat, cold and heavy, inside him. And that cold had leached out into his limbs, freezing them in place. He was rooted to the spot where he stood.

 

And if Draco didn’t manage to get over there and talk to himself in the next few moments, everything was going to be lost. All of his hard work, his planning, the ritual, the broken laws…all of it would be for nothing. All of it would be meaningless. His father would still be in Azkaban, his mother would still be wan and miserable and terrified in her own home, and he would still be branded with the Dark Mark, doomed to fail an impossible task and be punished for it. Potter would hate him, he would still be a coward, and nothing would have changed.

 

But that wasn’t acceptable. Draco _refused_ to let the first brave thing he’d ever done be for nothing. So he gathered the Gryffindor parts of himself – parts he’d thought his mother had imagined until his first few weeks back at Hogwarts for his Sixth Year – and strode over to himself with stubborn determination. This was going to be difficult, but he _would not fail._

 

“Hello.” He said without preamble. “We need to talk.”

 

Eleven year old Draco quirked an eyebrow and studied him. His grey eyes narrowed on the platinum hair, grey eyes, and aristocratic features. They analyzed the Slytherin tie, House Crest on his black school robes, and the shiny silver Prefects badge just above it. Then he sneered. “And who are you? Some lackey who’s supposed to get chummy with the Malfoy Heir before I even get to school?”

 

Draco rolled his eyes; he had been quite a brat at eleven. Then he bent down some and said, quite seriously. “On your birthday each year, you give yourself a password in case you ever need to travel back in time. This year, it’s ‘Not Durmstrang’ in celebration of Mother winning the argument with Father about what school we attend.”

 

Young-Draco’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “It’s against the law. Which means something happened, right? What is it?”

 

“It’s a lot.” Draco admitted to his younger self. He didn’t have time to play games. “How long has Mother been helping that old hag whose married to some Ministry guy pick a hat for some charity thing? I need to know how much time I have.”

 

Pink lips twitched up into a small smile and young-Draco said. “Not for too long. She’s only been gone for a couple of minutes. But Father…”

 

“Won’t be finished in Gringotts until after Mother returns. So we’ve got time for me to explain.” Draco sighed and admitted. “Or at least time enough to give you the basics. Father is in Azkaban. The Dark Lord has returned. Aunt Bellatrix is holding Mother captive at the Manor. And we are Marked and charged with killing Albus Dumbledore.”

 

Young-Draco looked like he might faint so Draco pressed on. “I know that it’s a lot; I know it’s overwhelming. But you need to understand how serious it is so that you do _exactly_ as I tell you. In my time, there’s no way to stop it. No way out. No way to fix it. It’s _too late._ So you need to _listen_ so that it can be stopped before it ever happens. Are you listening?”

 

Young-Draco nodded very solemnly, swallowing hard, and Draco gripped the boy’s upper-arms tightly to ensure he paid attention. The teen leaned in until he was touching noses with himself and said sternly. “In a few minutes, Mother and Father will drop you at Madam Malkin’s. While you’re there, another boy will come in. He’ll be in hideous clothes, with untidy hair and taped-up glasses. And you _must_ be nice to him, Draco. You _must_ be everything you’re hiding right now. Excited and scared and _improper._ And you must keep opinions about Mu-Muggleborns…” Draco cleared his throat after his stumble, but pressed doggedly onward.

 

“Keep your opinions about Muggleborns and Houses and other people to yourself.” He insisted, giving a harsh squeeze to young-Draco’s arms to drive this point home, ignoring the way his younger self whimpered and squirmed in protest and snapping harshly. “Listen to me! If you fail…if that boy – Harry – if he despises you…then nothing will change. Father will go to prison, Mother will be afraid in her own home, and you will know a pain like nothing you can even imagine when the Dark Mark is branded into your arm while Aunt Bella holds you down and you _beg_ for mercy.”

 

“So…so I just make friends with this boy?” Draco whispered, tears gathering on his eyelashes both from pain and fear. “And that’ll fix it?”

 

“No.” Draco admitted, leaning back a little and relaxing his punishing grip slightly. “No, but it’s a start. On the train, you’ll have to seek him out again. He’ll be with a Weasley and you’ll need to be nice to him as well, no matter what, or you’ll alienate Harry. Then, when you put on the Sorting Hat…” Draco swallowed hard; this was the part he was dreading, but he forced the words out anyway. “When the Hat touches your head, the only thought that can be in your mind is ‘ _Gryffindor’_ or all is lost. You _must_ be a Gryffindor, Draco.”

 

“But Mother and Father!” Young-Draco was looking ready to faint again; the very idea of not being a Slytherin was terrifying. “You can’t honestly expect…”

 

“I can and I do.” Draco snarled, leaning in close and squeezing his younger-self’s arms again. “I know what I am asking, believe me. Mother _will_ understand.” That was the only reason Draco had had the strength to do this; his mother’s promise of support. “And Father…well, he might not come round, but hopefully he won’t end up in Azkaban either. You must trust me. Do as I say. It’s our only hope. You _must_ be a Gryffindor and you _must_ be friends with Harry. Do you understand?”

 

Young-Draco nodded, still looking wary, and then stiffened. Draco stiffened as well when a cold, sharp voice spoke from behind him. “Get your hands _off_ of my son before I hex them off of _you!”_

 

Draco released himself and turned slowly to face his mother, straightening up at the same time. He watched her eyes widen as she took him in and saw the moment it clicked. She flicked her eyes between her son and the older version of him, then whispered. “Do I need to know anything?”

 

Draco hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and brushed his lips softly over her cheek. “Know that I’m fixing it for you.” He whispered, touching her arm lightly, just where the Dark Mark would rest if she had one, to ensure she understood what he was referring to. Then he added carefully. “And remember cousin Sirius and know that this was the only way.”

 

Narcissa’s eyes widened in shock and confusion as they dropped to Draco’s Slytherin tie, then flicked to her eleven year old son. Her gaze went back to the tie, then met the older Draco’s eyes, and she spoke with breathless surprise. “Of course. Sirius. I…I’ll do what I can. With Lucius, I mean. I…” She looked at her son, who couldn’t be more than sixteen, but who looked so tired and gaunt and far too solemn for someone his age, and added quietly. “I love you, darling, no matter what. And I trust that this is for the best.”

 

“Thank you.” Draco told her. He turned to look at himself and added. “Remember everything I told you, Draco. It’s important.” When the boy nodded, Draco kissed his mother’s cheek once more and said. “I love you, Mother.”

 

“Go.” She whispered back even as she gave him a quick hug. “Go, quickly, before Lucius comes back.”

 

And Draco did.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

The trip back to the Lochalsh Dance was far more nerve-wracking then the trip to Diagon Alley had been, in part because Draco was awake for all of it. Tired as he was, there was no way he could sleep in a sliding-about armchair and during the day the Knight Bus’s beds vanished. Draco wasn’t sure _why_ , since surely some people wished to sleep during the day if it was being spent traveling, but he didn’t really care enough to find out. So instead of sleeping he stared out a window for several hours, watching things whip past and praying his younger self had done as he’d asked. Because if he hadn’t, then Draco wasn’t sure what he would be returning to.

 

Though, in all fairness, he didn’t quite know what he’d be returning to anyway. The use of the Dances to time-travel was forbidden for a reason. Because they didn’t just move you through _time;_ they moved you through time _lines._ Which meant that in the world Draco had lived his whole life in, he was gone. He no longer existed. One day he had just disappeared, leaving his father in Azkaban, his Mother trapped at the Manor, and everyone he’d ever known at the mercy of the Dark Lord. Which was a horrible thought and one he’d had to force from his mind  on a regular basis for the last six months. He had abandoned everyone and he would never return; he would never fix things in _his_ world.

 

Now, when he went forward again, it would be into the future of the timeline – the world – he was currently in. He would step into the world of the Draco Malfoy he’d just spoken to. And _that_ Draco – the little boy he’d just entrusted with everything dear to them both – would disappear. The moment Draco appeared in the Dance, a few short days before Christmas of his Sixth Year, the Draco who had lived the years between in this world would vanish. He would fade into nonbeing in a matter of seconds and cease to exist. And he would take the place of that other-Draco and live with the fact that he’d doomed _his_ family to save the family of someone who’s life he was stealing.

 

“It’s worth it.” Draco told himself as he fished his cloak, hat, and scarf out of the tree he’d stashed them inside. “It’s worth it to save any form of Mother from her fate. It’s worth it to make things better _anywhere_. I’ll be able to hug her as she smiles and know that _I_ gave her that; that I spared her from what she became in _my_ world. So it’s worth it.”

 

And though this was a purely Slytherin thought – selfish and utterly cold and cruelly calculating in the worst sort of way – Draco felt that it could be forgiven, in light of all the Gryffindorish-things he would likely spend the rest of his life doing because of it. And as he donned his winter outerwear and stepped into the Dance, he reminded himself that there was a chance his younger self had failed and that he had no _real_ idea of what he was walking into. He would need to be extra-cautious and alert until he could properly assess the situation.

 

He touched the recumbent stone and whispered. “Worlds wait. Time flows. Gods watch.” The stones lit and he closed his eyes, raising his wand and chanting again, just as he had before.

 

What was, no longer was…and now it was time to see if what is had changed enough to alter what was to come. As the world fell away beneath him, Draco realized that he was no longer afraid. He was breathless with curiosity and exhilarated by the thrill of what he’d done, but he wasn’t _afraid._ So perhaps – just perhaps – his Mother really had been right all along. Perhaps he really _was_ brave and had only needed to be shown that fact. Perhaps this really would work. And as the world firmed under his feet once more – his legs giving out so he collapsed to the frozen, snow-covered ground -  Draco felt hope blossom, warm and bright, in his chest.

 

Then, with an almost desperate need to _know,_ Draco opened his eyes.


	3. Changed

It was a fairly anti-climactic moment, considering the enormity of what he’d just done. Draco was sitting in the snow in the middle of the once-again-slumbering stone circle. It was dark and cold and vaguely wet and looked precisely as it had when he’d left. Except, he noted with interest, that there were no footprints leading up to the Dance. A sudden thought had him shoving to his feet and cursing as he ran out of the Dance. He made a quick circle around the stones, then stopped and simply stared in shock at them for several moments.

 

Then he began to curse again. “You’ve got to be _fucking_ kidding me! Are you _insane?_ Of course I couldn’t have told him to _meet me here._ Oh no, of course not, that would’ve been too _bloody_ intelligent, wouldn’t it? Couldn’t have him bring the bloody broom and just taken it when he disappeared!” Draco kicked angrily at a pile of snow, sneering at himself as he spat. “But of course, I couldn’t _watch_ as he faded out, could I? Too bloody cowardly still for _that_. So now I’ve got to bloody-well _walk_ the whole damn way back to the castle, don’t I? Je suis tellement stupide putain…”

 

As his temper spiked, the French curses continued rolling off his tongue. Finally, he puffed up his cheeks for a moment, blew out the air slowly, and accepted that it would be a long, cold walk back to the castle and there was nothing to be done about it now. Settling his wand on his palm, he snapped. “Point Me Hogwarts.”

 

When the wand spun to show the correct direction, Draco growled and stomped off through the snow, still occasionally cursing under his breath.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

When Draco stepped into Hogsmeade, he was tired and cranky and sweating despite the cold. He had given up on cursing - in any language - some time earlier in favor of sucking in great gulps of air and struggling not to collapse into the snow. His legs felt like jelly; the muscles quivered and threatened to give out with every step. His lungs burned and the icy air stung like thousands of tiny needle-pricks with each breath he took. Draco was almost entirely positive that he’d never been so miserable in his whole life, though he was really too tired to make any sort of accurate comparison.

 

He trudged wearily up Hogsmeade’s high street, then up the path that lead to Hogwarts, keeping his eyes locked on the looming presence of the castle. The sun had crept over the horizon several hours earlier and Draco suspected people would be up-and-about when he got there, though he wasn’t even sure what day of the week it was anymore. He passed through Hogwarts gates, pleased to find them unlocked; in his world, they’d been chained shut and he’d had to slip through the Dark Forest in order to circumvent the school’s wards. Draco froze as he crossed the grounds, suddenly realizing something.

 

“Merlin’s left bollock, this is getting ridiculous!” Draco snarled, stomping his foot in annoyance because he was simply too tired to throw the full tantrum he wanted to.

 

He stopped, cold-numbed fingers unknotting his tie. Draco coiled the green and silver striped silk in his hand and clenched his fist around it. His heart aching, Draco slipped the tie into the inside pocket of his cloak. Then he aimed his wand at his robes and cast a quick Diffindo, cringing as the patch with his House Crest fell away from the black fabric. He caught it and slipped it into the same pocket as his tie. After a moment’s hesitation, Draco unpinned his silver Prefect’s badge, adding that to the pocket as well.

 

Draco felt naked without the symbols of his House and his authority, but he couldn’t risk being seen in Slytherin colors when he was – most-likely – a Gryffindor now. He also couldn’t risk wearing the Prefect’s badge when he didn’t know if he still held that position. “This better be worth it.” He muttered darkly as he moved to continue on to the school.

 

When Draco stepped through the doors, the noise of chattering students eating breakfast filtered through the partially-open doors to the Great Hall. Draco stood in the Entrance Hall, trembling and exhausted and wanting to go to bed, but he didn’t even know where his dorm room was, let alone what the password for it was. He didn’t know where to go or what to do. He didn’t know who he could trust or if he should tell someone – perhaps the Headmaster? – about what he had done. Draco didn’t know much of anything and he was too tired to think. After several moments, Draco decided he would go force the Come-and-Go-Room into existence so he could take a nap. When he woke up, he would decide what to do.

 

He had just started up the Grand Staircase when he heard his name. “Draco!” The voice was one he knew, but he’d never heard it say his name in such a breathless, affectionate way. “There you are! I’ve been looking for you _everywhere!_ You’re supposed to be approving my outfit.”

 

Draco stayed where he was, frozen on the third step from the bottom, as Ginny Weasley rushed down the staircase towards him. She stopped two steps above him and did a little pirouette before facing him and placing her hands on her hips, tipping her head to the side. “Well?” She demanded.

 

Draco looked her over from head-to-toe, his eyes wide and his mouth slack with surprise. Her hair – far past her shoulders in his world – fell in daringly-short layers around her face. It was longest in the front, where it curled just-slightly under her chin, then got gradually shorter until, at the very back, it just barely reached the nape of her neck. It shone red and gold – like gilded rubies – in the weak winter sunlight streaming through the windows. Her wide, honey-colored eyes were lined in black, with a soft glimmer of gold color smudged along the lids. Her full, petal-pink lips were slicked with something that made them look wet and inviting.

 

Her fair skin was practically glowing and Draco was startled to realize that she had far fewer freckles than he’d ever assumed considering her brothers abundance of them; just the barest sprinkling across her nose and cheeks. She was dressed in an outfit not even Draco could find fault with. She wore skin-tight black leggings that hugged her long, slender legs perfectly. Her feet and calves were encased in black leather boots that came up to just below her knees; the heel was a three-inch stiletto and Draco was impressed she’d managed to run down the stairs in them. Her top was a long-sleeved sweater in emerald green; it had a deep, scooped neck that showed just a hint of cleavage and the hem came down to mid-thigh and Draco was almost positive it was made of _cashmere_ and he didn’t quite understand. It was cinched around her waist with a wide black belt, giving her a curvier look than her willowy frame actually boasted.

 

Not sure what he was supposed to be “approving” the outfit _for_ , Draco resorted to his standby response to Pansy at such moments. “You look positively stunning, darling.” He forced a charming smile onto his face even though he was actually starting to _sway_ from exhaustion.

 

Ginny sighed happily, looking relieved. “Oh good. I just…Merlin, I can’t believe I let you talk me into dating a _Slytherin!_ Granted he _is_ gorgeous. And wealthy. And neutral, which is a big deal considering. And I know he’s your friend. But still… _a Slytherin!”_

 

Draco gritted his teeth and bit out. “The entire House is not _evil_ , you know. And Blaise is a perfectly acceptable person to date. So mind your tongue.” Thankfully her description of her ‘date’ had narrowed it down to Blaise Zabini and no one else.

 

“Oh, hush, Draco.” Ginny patted his arm absently and Draco stared in shock at the course, brash, abrasive tomboy who now seemed to be quite cultured and sophisticated. “Honestly, you keep going on and on all of the time about how you could have been a Slytherin and we ought to give that whole lot a chance, when everyone knows that  you couldn’t be more Gryffindor if you tried!”

 

Draco’s whole body swayed this time; the exhaustion coupled with confirmation of his new House was simply too much for him. Ginny gasped and then her fingers were curled around his upper arms, her nails digging in as she did her best to keep him from collapsing. But Draco was heavy and Ginny was in heels and in a matter of seconds they had both tumbled down the handful of steps, crashing to the stone floor of the Entrance Hall in a tangle of limbs. Draco’s chest cushioned Ginny’s head, but the back of his own skull met unrelenting stone and black crept into his field of vision.

 

Then Ginny’s small hands were rushing over his cheeks and jaw and into his hair, and her voice was high and panicking. “Draco! Oh Merlin, Draco, are you okay? Oh no…oh shit…Madam Pomfrey! Someone get her, quickly!”

 

“Shit, Gin, what happened?” Ron’s grating voice broke in and then much larger hands were probing at his head and Draco groaned low in his throat. “Draco, can you hear me? Where does it hurt?”

 

“He just crumpled, Ron.” Ginny sounded near to tears and Draco did his best to open his eyes because he was still confused and uncertain and he didn’t trust _anyone_ at the moment. “We were talking and he just…he just _collapsed_ and I tried to catch him but he’s bigger than me and thank Godric we were only a few steps up but I think his head hit the floor…”

 

“Move aside!” Madam Pomfrey’s brisk voice cut through the growing chatter of students.

 

Hermione’s concerned whisper cut into Draco’s mind next. “I got her as soon as you screamed for help, Gin. I hope he’s alright…”

 

Draco finally forced his eyes open and the Mediwitch sighed in relief. “There you are, Mr. Malfoy. You gave us all a bit of a scare! Where does it hurt, dear?”

 

Draco groaned again, then struggled to ignore the worried looks on the faces of people who hated him as he muttered. “Back of my head. Vision went black. Might be concussed…”

 

“Most likely.” Poppy agreed as she quickly conjured a stretched and levitated the blonde onto it. “I’ll have you patched up soon enough, but you’ll need to sit out Hogsmeade today for certain. I want you in my Infirmary where I can keep an eye on you.”

 

“We’ll stay with you.” Ginny reached out to squeeze his hand and there were tear-tracks on her cheeks. “I can read to you or you and Ron can play chess or something.”

 

“No…” Draco didn’t want company and he certainly wasn’t up to trying to interact with a group of Gryffindors he was apparently friends with. “No, you’ve got a date. Go. I’d hate to ruin it.” He forced a grin and added. “Make Blaise buy me something.”

 

Ginny laughed shakily and pressed a quick kiss to Draco’s cheek. “Okay. We’ll get you something sweet from Honeydukes, alright?”

 

She stepped back as Madam Pomfrey waved her wand and headed off towards the hospital wing, the stretcher trailing along behind her. Ron and Hermione stood beside her, watching Draco get taken away, and then Hermione whispered. “Someone ought to go find Harry. He’ll want to know.”

 

“I’ll do it.” Ron replied. He kissed Hermione’s cheek, patted Ginny’s shoulder, and headed towards the dungeons.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Draco’s next unpleasant moment came faster than he’d expected. After healing the external damage to his head, Poppy insisted he had to stay so she could monitor his concussion. Draco didn’t mind, but he did ask that he be allowed to change into pajamas so he would at least be comfortable. He was looking forward to sleeping, even if he _would_ be getting woken up every hour to answer questions like what his full name was and where he’d been born. He had just stripped off his shirt and was reaching for the pajama top when Poppy stuck her head back around the curtain.

 

What she’d wanted, Draco would never know. Her scream echoed around the stone room eerily and Draco felt his heart freeze in his chest when he realized what she was staring at, one hand covering her mouth and the other pressed to her heart. Draco’s eyes dropped to the vivid black ink marring his arm and he immediately tugged on the pajama top, covering it. He simply stood there, staring at the Mediwitch, waiting to see what she would do. He would handle her reaction – whatever it was; whatever it took – but first he needed a better idea of what he was dealing with.

 

“You…you…” Her whole body seemed to shake and Draco prayed she wouldn’t faint. “Oh Merlin…I don’t understand…”

 

Draco took a deep breath and said in a pleading, desperate voice. “I…I know how it looks, okay? But it’s _not_ what you think, I swear. If you’ll get the Headmaster, I’ll explain everything to you both. I swear it. I just don’t…I can’t…” Draco’s mouth moved silently for a moment, then he whispered. “I just need him here before I explain. _Please…”_

 

And though she still trembled, Madam Pomfrey nodded, then went to fetch Albus Dumbledore. She just hoped Draco really _could_ explain.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

“And that’s why I passed out.” Draco concluded. He’d been talking for what felt like forever, but it hadn’t actually taken him more than half an hour to explain everything to the Headmaster and the Mediwitch. “I never wanted the Mark. I never wanted any of that. That’s...that’s why I had to do this. I couldn’t become a murderer.”

 

Albus placed a gentle hand on Draco’s shoulder and said softly. “Although what you did was wrong, Draco, it was also terribly brave. You made the choice to leave everything you have ever known in the hopes of helping to create a better world and a better life. Though your methods were questionable, your intentions were noble and I want you to know that I am here for you.”

 

Draco licked his lips nervously. “You...you aren’t going to turn me in?” He was shaking all over at the thought of facing the Ministry and Azkaban - not even over his Mark, but over his use of the Dance.

 

“What good would turning you in do?” Dumbledore asked philosophically. “Our Draco is already gone and there is no way to send you back to your world. Nothing can be accomplished by sending you to Azkaban, Draco.” Blue eyes twinkled as he added. “And I have a feeling that learning to live here, in this world, will prove to be its own form of justice in the end.”

 

Just then, the doors to the Infirmary slammed open with a sharp burst of magic. The air hummed and crackled with it; it was like a living, breathing entity filling up the room. It buzzed against Draco’s skin and made him shiver. Albus looked resigned and Poppy looked wary. Draco wasn’t sure, but he thought it might be wise to be afraid. Then the person causing the magic stormed into the room, looking absolutely livid. He was being trailed by a fuming Severus Snape.

 

“Mr. Potter, you are _not_ done with your lessons!” Severus snarled, stalking after the furious teen. “You will accompany me back to the dungeons _this instant!”_

 

“Piss off, Snape.” Harry spat back, holding up his hand and making a rude gesture at his professor. “If you could stop me, you would have. Might as well just give up and slink back there on your own.”

 

Draco’s mouth was hanging open in shock. The teen in front of him was _not_ the mild-mannered, if-oft-temperamental, Harry Potter he had left behind. Harry’s hair was slightly shorter than in Draco’s world and it was artfully tousled so that it fell rakishly into his eyes. Eyes that were intensely green and no longer hidden behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Harry was wearing skin-tight black leather trousers and a just-as-tight white tee-shirt and he was lean and muscled and looked quite deadly, especially when one factored in the magic still crackling around him.

 

“Albus; Poppy.” Harry inclined his head briefly to the two other adults in the room, then reached out to stroke his fingers over Draco’s cheek. “Ron told me you were hurt. What happened, love?”

 

Draco’s mouth moved soundlessly; he couldn’t quite get past the fact that Harry had _flipped off_ Severus Snape and being called ‘love’ on top of it wasn’t helping. Neither was the magic buzzing against his skin where Harry touched; it was making his skin tingle and his head go light and fuzzy.

 

Thankfully, Draco was saved from responding by Madam Pomfrey. “Mr. Malfoy has a concussion and some intermittent amnesia. Though he knows who everyone is, including himself, and some things about his life, there _are_ gaps. I advise caution, Mr. Potter, in your interactions.”

 

Draco felt relief wash over him at Poppy’s words, but it didn’t last long. Harry smirked. “Gaps? Well, we can’t have that, now can we?” He turned that smirk on Draco. “Tell me, Draco...what do you remember about me and our... _relationship?”_

 

“Mr. Potter, I _hardly_ think...” Poppy was stopped by Dumbledore giving a subtle shake of his head. She fell silent, but didn’t look at all happy about it.

 

“Oh, well...” Draco bit his lip, wondering what it was safe to say. Severus was watching with a frown from the sidelines, Albus looked amused, and Poppy looked disapproving. Deciding to take a shot in the dark based on how Harry had stormed in, Draco offered carefully. “I know we’re friends. Best friends, I would even say, if it came down to it. And dorm mates, obviously.”

 

Harry’s eyebrows winged up, then drew down over his eyes in an instant. “Well, there’s a gap for you, I suppose.” Then that smirk was back and Harry practically _growled_ when he added. “I don’t like this particular gap, Draco, so I think I’ll just fill it in for you.”

 

Before Draco could react, Harry fisted a hand in the front of Draco’s pajamas and _yanked_. Draco was pulled forwards and a little bit up and then his mouth was being crushed by Harry Potter’s and Draco’s brain didn’t know what to do. Neither did his body. His hands moved to cup Harry’s face, then dropped before touching him, then lifted again, then ended up fisted in the material of his pajama pants. Harry’s tongue pressed between Draco’s lips, then curled to lick at the roof of his mouth for an instant before he pulled back. Draco’s whole body was crackling with the heated buzz of Harry’s magic and his lips felt hot and bruised.

 

“How’s that for something you ought to remember?” Harry asked, his tone smug as he stared heatedly down at Draco.

 

Draco opened his mouth to reply, but no sound came out. Instead, his eyes rolled back in his head and he slipped into unconsciousness once more.


	4. Our Only Hope

“...still unconscious, Harry.” Hermione’s voice was a low murmur against Draco’s ears as he struggled towards wakefulness once more. “And Madam Pomfrey said you aren’t supposed to be here. Draco isn’t well and you forcing yourself on him isn’t going to help!” How she managed to lecture in a whisper amazed Draco; it was a real gift.

 

“Oh come off it, Hermione.” Harry’s voice was a dismissive drawl that had Draco’s already-fuzzy head spinning dizzily. “Draco and I _understand_ each other. He’ll totally approve.”

 

“Honestly...” Hermione sounded disapproving. “You know what, Harry? You two are incorrigible and completely hopeless! And the way you two drag Ron along on all of your little schemes...it is _just_ like how your father and Sirius dragged Remus along _and that is not something to be proud of so get that smug look off of your face this instant!”_ Her voice switched from disapproving to a low, furious hiss with the last part of her statement and Harry’s laughter was surprisingly casual in light of that fact.

 

“You worry too much.” Harry assured her; Draco forced his eyes open in time to see the eyeroll Harry tacked on to the end of that statement. “You know Padfoot says Draco is just like him and _everyone_ says how much like my dad I am, and they turned out _just_ fine. So why do you fuss about it all the time?”

 

Hermione shoved to her feet, clutching a large book to her chest, and snapped. “You know perfectly well why I have an issue with it all!”

 

She stomped off and Draco thought he heard the word _‘bully’_ muttered under her breath, but he wasn’t entirely sure so he didn’t dwell on it. Instead he flicked his eyes to Harry and was startled to find the other teen watching him. “You remember me yet?” Harry asked, quirking an eyebrow.

 

Draco bristled and snapped. “I never forgot _you_ , Potter. I simply forgot the part of our friendship that apparently involves your tongue in my mouth.” Still tired, his head still throbbing, Draco added crossly. “I think I’d like to forget it a second time, as well.”

 

Harry’s whole body seemed to shimmer as magic crackled around him. “Not funny.” He spat, glaring heatedly at the prone blonde. “You’d better remember fast, Draco. I’m an impatient sort and I don’t plan on waiting long for what I want.”

 

Draco had just tensed, ready to snarl back, when Poppy appeared. “Mr. Potter! I believe I told you to _get out_ of my Infirmary unless you were injured?” Harry nodded tersely and she snapped. “Then vacate this portion of the castle _immediately_ and do not come back unless you are near to death! And if you try to use that Cloak of yours, I will be forced to ward Mr. Malfoy’s bed against you. Do I make myself clear?”

 

“Perfectly.” Harry bit out from between clenched teeth. He turned another heated look on Draco and added in a low, harsh voice. “Get yourself sorted, Draco. _Soon.”_

 

When he stomped out, Draco whispered to Poppy. “Is he always like that here? Because in my world he’s...he’s not like _that.”_

 

“He’s not like what, Mr. Malfoy?” Poppy asked wearily as she ran scans on her little time-traveling, world-jumping patient.

 

“You know.” Draco gestured vaguely at the air. “With his magic all...crackling and such. He’s meek and humble and _sweet._ He’s modest and naive and kind and generous. He’s bloody-well _perfect_ in my world, actually.” This last bit was adding grudgingly. “This is...I dunno. This is _weird.”_

 

Poppy sighed as she completed her scans and patted Draco’s hand lightly. “I do not know _your_ Harry, Mr. Malfoy, but this is ours. He is difficult at the best of times, but he is powerful. And one day soon he will be our salvation.”

 

Draco felt doubtful of that. This Harry Potter was not Gryffindor’s Golden Boy; he would not be self-sacrificing and noble and mindlessly obedient. He would have plans and ideas and do things his _own_ way. He was also cocky and arrogant and had a frightening edge of darkness to him. Draco didn’t know if _this_ Harry could save _anyone_ , let alone _everyone._ Draco wasn’t sure this Harry would even _want_ to save them all from the Dark Lord. He just didn’t seem the sort.

 

Draco swallowed hard and whispered. “Are you sure he can save us? Because...because I know that the Harry Potter in _my_ world can. He _will._ He’s made for it. But this one...” Draco felt bleak despair creep over him and he refused to blink for fear that the dampness gathered there would form into tears. “I didn’t do all of this to be doomed. I didn’t do all of this to let him _fail._ Or to have him take over, either. He’s not...he’s not supposed to _be_ like this...he...”

 

When Draco’s voice broke, Poppy tutted softly. “I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Malfoy. We are doing our best to prepare Mr. Potter for the coming battle. We are doing our best to impress upon him the seriousness of everything happening. But the two of you are...” She stopped, shaking her head. “It doesn’t much matter now, actually. But while there is a fear of Mr. Potter’s power, those in authority are confident that they can handle him.”

 

Draco felt like someone had dunked him in ice water. He had grown up around politics and the Ministry; he knew what it meant when _‘those in authority’_ were confident they could _‘handle’_ someone. When Harry finished defeating the Dark Lord - killing him, really, if they were all being perfectly honest - he would be put on trial and imprisoned in Azkaban. And if they didn’t think they could successfully contain him there, then they would simply administer The Kiss. The Ministry would do whatever it took to prevent the rise of Dark Lord Potter and it was clear that, in _this_ world, that was a genuine concern.

 

Draco had a sudden, horrible image flash through his mind. It was Harry, but not. Those vibrant green eyes, so full of life and emotion, were dead and empty. That full, mobile mouth was slack and drooling. That sweet, angelic face was ashen and gaunt. Draco squeezed his eyes shut against the image, but it seemed to have burned itself into his retinas and couldn’t be banished. He couldn’t breath; the very idea of Harry being like that - empty and lifeless, stripped of his soul and everything else that made him who he was - was strangely unbearable to the former-Slytherin.

 

Though he and Harry had never gotten along in _his_ world, the Chosen One was still an integral part of Draco’s entire life. Not just as an annoyance, either. Harry was his rival in all things - Quidditch, classes, the epic battle of good and evil; he was Draco’s rival in _life._ That was just how it had always been. Draco couldn’t even imagine a life without Harry Potter to plague his thoughts and annoy him and fight with him. And now, there seemed to be so much more to them.

 

If he was really Harry’s best friend - and, apparently, snogging-partner and perhaps even _more_ \- then surely he could influence him? Surely he could help to show Harry just how much his _purity_ was needed? Draco locked eyes with Pomfrey and whispered. “I’ll fix it. I’ll...I won’t let it turn out badly. I’ll give your world back the Harry Potter I took from it.”

 

Hope flickered into being in Poppy’s eyes, though doubt laced her voice when she spoke. “But how, Mr. Malfoy? _How_ will you do something none of us have been able to? What can you possibly do?”

Draco’s grey eyes hardened; his voice was icy and determined. A small smirk curved his lips. “Unlike _your_ Draco, _I_ am actually a Slytherin, Madam Pomfrey. So make no mistake; I will do whatever it takes to put things right. _Whatever_ it takes.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Draco’s fingers fidgeted anxiously with his Gryffindor tie. The red-and-gold stripes made his skin itch; he felt completely conspicuous, even though he knew that everyone here _expected_ him to be wearing it. He had been quite pleased when Poppy had told him he could pin his Prefect’s badge onto the Gryffindor robes he had been brought; it was nice to know not _everything_ had changed. But since it was just a few days before Christmas - Sunday, December 22nd, to be precise - when he was released from the Infirmary, Draco didn’t need to wear his robes just yet and he had no intention of doing so.  Not until he _absolutely_ had to, anyway.

 

He stepped up to a portrait of a very large woman in a pink dress and cleared his throat. “Hello.” He said pleasantly, a tentative smile curving his lips. The Slytherin dorms had no guardian; he wasn’t quite sure what the etiquette was for dealing with them.

 

The Fat Lady quirked an eyebrow and asked loftily. “Password?”

 

Draco shrugged; he hadn’t thought to ask it. “I’m not sure. But you _must_ recognize me. I’m best friends with Harry Potter. I’m a Prefect. I’ve been in this House for over five years.”

 

The woman sneered down at him. “No password, no entrance.” Then she turned her nose up, folded her arms over her ample bosom, and proceeded to ignore him.

 

Draco growled, debating what the best course of action was. After a moment, he reached up and began to pound on the portrait’s frame. He ignored her indignant shrieking and continued for almost two minutes until, at last, the portrait swung open to reveal a wide-eyed Gryffindor boy. “Draco!” The boy gasped, looking confused. “Why’re you banging like that?”

 

“Head injury.” Draco growled testily as he pushed past the kid and clambered into the Common Room. “I couldn’t remember the blasted password.”

 

He stopped inside the plush, cozy common room with it’s overstuffed armchairs and sofas, which were littered with throw pillows and knit blankets. It was all horribly mismatched, but somehow strangely inviting. Draco _hated_ it. He glowered around at the boisterous, friendly atmosphere and longed for the reserved, soothing Slytherin Common Room with it’s black decor and green-tinted light and underwater windows that showed the lake. The boy who had let him in was hovering near Draco’s left elbow and Draco’s fingers twitched restlessly; he longed to hex the boy for no reason other than his unnerving presence.

 

“Did you forget where your dorm is, too?” The boy finally chirped when Draco didn’t move further than a few steps into the Common Room.

 

Draco ground his teeth together because the very idea that he would forget where he’d slept for over five years was ridiculous and offensive. But _he_ hadn’t slept in the Gryffindor dorms, so the result was the same as if he really _had_ forgotten something so crucial to his life at Hogwarts. So he bit out. “Care to point?”

 

The boy beamed up at him and Draco decided he’d rather punch the kid than hex him; he thought it might be more satisfying. “Sure! Come on, it’s this way.”

 

Draco clenched his jaw against a sarcastic retort and followed the boy across the Common Room. There were two doorways that Draco could see and as they headed towards one, he assumed the other must lead to the girls’ dorms. Inside the stairwell was a spiraling staircase that climbed up the tower and Draco groaned at the idea of living someplace with so many stairs. It just wasn’t _on,_ having to climb up and down all of the time. In Draco’s opinion, the castle had enough bloody stairs without putting them in the dorms as well. Not that anyone had asked him.

 

“The dorms are chronological.” The boy chattered as they began to climb. “So the first door is the First Years, the second door is the Second Years, and so on. Which puts you _almost_ at the top this year and my dorm is just one below you, of course.”

 

Draco found it a bit hard to believe that this little _mouse_ of a boy was only a year younger than himself, but he didn’t argue. Instead he muttered. “I’m certain I can find it from here.” Grudgingly, he added. “Thank you for your help.”

 

“Anytime!” The boy enthused, his cheeks pink with pleasure as he peeked up at Draco through his fringe with large, honey-colored eyes. In a breathless murmur, he added. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you... _anything...”_

 

Draco’s eyebrows had winged up into his hairline in an instant and then a cold, snarling voice came from the stairs above them. “Colin, if you do not stop hitting on him I will strip you naked and tie you face-down to a desk in an empty classroom for Filch to find!” Draco’s head snapped around to see a furious-looking Harry Potter moving down the stairs towards them.

 

The boy - Colin, apparently - cringed, then stammered nervously. “Harry! I...I didn’t mean...I wasn’t...he just couldn’t...couldn’t remember where the...you know, the dorms were...and I...I thought...”

 

“Thought you ought to piss off?” Harry sneered, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Why don’t you get right on it?”

 

“Potter!” Draco couldn’t help feeling appalled at how Harry was acting. The boy was supposed to be the epitome of Light, not some sort of _bully._ He turned to the boy and said. “Thank you, really, for showing me the way. I appreciate it. And if Potter does _anything_ to hurt you, I’ll report him to the Headmaster myself, I assure you.”

 

Colin’s eyes were the size of dinner plates as he glanced between the seemingly-sincere Draco Malfoy and a gobsmacked Harry Potter. Then he swallowed hard, nodded, and fled. Draco turned to glare heatedly at Harry, crossing his own arms over his chest. “Just who do you think you are, Potter? Merlin’s gift to Wizard-kind? Get over yourself!”

 

He then stomped up the stairs, shoving viciously past Harry. Draco actually jammed his elbow quite forcefully into Harry’s diaphragm on his way past. Then he muttered something vaguely insulting under his breath before continuing on to the correct door and slamming it open. Draco slammed it shut behind himself and immediately spat a handful of locking and privacy charms at it, then stomped over to the bed that was clearly his own.

 

Though it was one of six identical four-poster beds, all decked out in red-and-gold, Draco’s had his monogrammed trunk at the foot and a special pillow on it that gave away that it was his. The pillow was something his mother had made for him when he was very little; it was black velvet, embroidered with tiny, perfect stitches in green and silver. The hundreds-of-thousands of little stitches formed a beautiful, highly-detailed dragon. Draco had never spent a single night without it, in all the years since Narcissa had made it for him, and he was pleased to see that it still resided on his bed. He was _very_ fond of it.

 

Draco toed off his shoes and practically ripped the stupid Gryffindor tie from around his neck, dropping it carelessly on the floor and wishing he could toss it into the rubbish bin instead. Then he dropped onto his bed and curled around the aforementioned pillow, squeezing his eyes shut and pretending the room around him was his Slytherin dorm and any minute now Blaise and Theo would begin bickering over the merits of Ancient Runes versus Arithmancy. He pretended that Crabbe and Goyle were fighting over the chocolate frogs that came in Draco’s care package every week and in a minute or two he’d have to snap at them to just divide them up _like always_ before he took the bloody things back.

 

The imagining was cut short when there was a sharp crackle of magic and the door flew open with enough force to crack it against the stone wall. Harry looked ready to kill someone and, to be perfectly honest, Draco was _thrilled._ He was spoiling for a fight himself and there was no one he’d rather fight with than Harry. And apparently Harry _needed_ to fight with him; to keep him humble. Draco had actually always attributed that to Snape, but it seemed as though it was more a result of his own picking than he’d ever dreamed. Well, he’d be quite happy to take Harry down a few pegs, in this or any world.

 

“Fuck off, Potter!” Draco snarled, sitting up and wrapping his arms tighter around his pillow. “The use of locking charms is generally intended to discourage company!”

 

“Yeah? How’s that working out for you?” Harry retorted sarcastically, magic literally flickering and crackling around him like lightning.

 

“Clearly not as well as I’d hoped.” Draco drawled back, purposely forcing his voice to come out even and controlled this time. He knew people hated to be dismissed or found unimportant. “Do you actually have something of any significance to say to me, or do you just enjoy the sound of your own voice?”

 

Harry let out a strange series of sibilance and Draco curled his hands into fists, fighting against a shiver at the sensual sound of Parseltongue. “Well, there’s my answer then, yeah?” He bit out coldly. “If you’ve switched to a language you know I don’t understand, _clearly_ you just want to hear yourself talk. And as you can do that anywhere, you can just kindly get the fuck out now.”

 

Then Draco shot a quick spell at his curtains - one of the few he could do both wandlessly and non-verbally - and smirked as they tugged themselves shut, sealing him inside the red-and-gold monstrosity of a bed. He breathed a sigh of relief and let himself fall onto his back, staring up at the canopy. Draco had never been afraid of Potter in his time, but this Harry was different. He radiated power and danger and, loathe though he was to admit it, Draco found it oddly attractive. But he knew that no one else here was going to stand up to the Savior and someone had to. Which meant that Draco couldn’t be afraid and he couldn’t sink into lust-fueled complacency, either. He needed to stand strong.

 

Which, he realized a moment later when his curtains were yanked open, was going to be harder than he’d ever anticipated. Harry was looming over him, breathing heavily, still crackling with magic and looking terrifyingly deadly. Draco was more than a little embarrassed to find that the sight of a murderous Harry Potter apparently went straight to his cock; that was _not_ something he had known about himself. He knew it had to do with Purebloods and his own upbringing; an instinctive attraction to power that was insisting he wanted to be as close to Harry as possible. But Draco was stronger than that. He wasn’t going to let anything prevent him from putting Potter in his place.

 

“Can I help you?” He growled coldly, quirking a single brow to emphasize the question. “Because I’m trying to rest here.”

 

“I think you’ve rested enough.” Harry spat. Then he was straddling Draco’s waist, shoving the dragon pillow to the side, and pinning Draco’s wrists above his head. It all happened too fast for Draco to do more than gasp and then Harry’s lips were near his ear as he purred. “You know how hot it gets me when you’re angry...I just love forcing you to submit and give in when you don’t want to...”

 

Draco’s breath shuddered in and he bit his tongue to hold back a moan as Harry’s hot, wet tongue traced the curve of his ear. He squeezed his eyes shut and said as coldly as he could manage. “I cannot fathom why you think your twisted perversions will be _welcomed_ , Potter, but they are _not._ Now get off of me before I report you for harassment.”

 

Harry scoffed and rocked his hips, groaning softly as he pressed his ass against Draco’s swiftly-growing erection. “Feels like they’re pretty welcome to me, love.”

 

Draco didn’t hesitate. He tensed his arms, using Harry’s grip on his wrists as a brace. Then - in a single smooth, rapid movement - he set his feet against the mattress, arched his back, and twisted his body. Harry went flying, spinning as he fell through the bed curtains, getting tangled up in them and actually pulling them down before hitting the floor. Draco smirked, feeling completely satisfied to have brought the arrogant, cocksure prat down a few pegs. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched as Harry fought his way free of the heavy red velvet.

 

When the brunette finally emerged, hissing and cursing, Draco quirked an eyebrow and asked. “Ready to believe I’m not in the mood to play squish-and-squeeze, Potter?”

 

Harry was staring at him, clearly furious but also utterly surprised. “What the _fuck_ was that?” He demanded, shoving free of the curtain and standing up.

 

 _‘That’_ was actually something Draco had demanded to learn after he’d been slapped by Hermione Granger in his Third Year. Martial arts; a way to defend himself if he got caught without his wand or if he was disarmed or if some uncivilized person decided to try to fight him like a Muggle. The only reason he hadn’t used it on the Quidditch Pitch was because he’d been outnumbered. He was skilled, but he’d only trained to handle one-on-one situations.

 

But Draco didn’t say that to Harry. Instead he retorted sharply. “That was me saying no, Potter. A very loud, very firm, _no_. Are we clear?”

 

Harry tensed, then turned on his heel and stomped out of the room. When the door had slammed shut and Harry’s angry, thudding footfalls had faded, Draco repaired his bed curtains and cast every single locking and privacy charm on them he could think of. He even made his bed Unplottable, though he didn’t think that that was strictly necessary. Still, with Harry acting like a deranged, big-headed, egotistical prat, Draco wasn’t taking _any_ chances.

 

Harry Potter would get into Draco Malfoy’s bed when hell froze over.


	5. Resistance

Draco woke up on Monday feeling muzzy-headed and disoriented. The glaringly red-and-gold canopy over his head did nothing to help with those things. Draco’s brain caught up with him after a few moments of silent confusion and he groaned. He was in the Gryffindor Sixth Year boys’ dorm in Gryffindor Tower because he was a bloody Gryffindor now. Draco cast a suspicious look at his bed curtains, but they seemed to still be sealed. He blew out a relieved breath and shook his head at his own worry. Draco had put up spells most full grown Witches and Wizards didn’t know and certainly couldn’t break; he was more than safe from Harry Potter.

 

That delusion was shattered when Neville Longbottom tentatively pulled back the curtains on one side of his bed. Draco narrowed his eyes and snapped. “Can I help you?”

 

Neville jumped, which surprised Draco somewhat. The Neville in _his_ world was brave enough to face down Death Eaters; he didn’t jump when Draco snarled anymore. “S-sorry.” The boy stuttered and Draco’s brow furrowed because suddenly he felt like he was dealing with a broken toy. “Ha-Harry asked me t-to see if you we-were up y-yet.”

 

Draco bristled, realizing Harry had dismantled his spells and then made sure he knew it. “Yes, well, tell Potter I’m in no mood to deal with him today and he’d best stay far away from me if he wants to keep his bollocks attached to his body.”

 

“So it’s true?” The question came from a quiet black boy Draco only vaguely recognized from classes. He thought the boy might be an artist; Draco was pretty sure he’d done moving representations of scenes from the Triwizard Tournament.

 

“What’s true?” Draco bit out as he got gracelessly out of bed. He was _not_ a morning person. He began unbuttoning his shirt before stopping with some vicious swearing - in no-less-than three languages - when he remembered his Dark Mark.

 

“Dean...” Neville whispered, his eyes shifting skittishly around the room. “D-don’t.”

 

“Oh hush, Neville.” The boy - Dean, apparently - rolled his eyes at Neville, then gave Draco an intensely speculative look. “You and Harry...you’ve had some sort of falling out?”

 

“You could say that.” Draco allowed as he flipped open one of his trunk’s many compartments and began selecting his bath products. “Suffice to say that Potter is no longer welcome in my bed.”

 

Dean’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline and Draco cursed softly to himself as he opened a different compartment on his trunk to dig out clothes, hoping he hadn’t divulged some huge secret. “The day Harry is actually barred from your bed is the day Snape professes his love for all things Gryffindor.”

 

Draco let out a short, sharp bark of laughter, then pushed to his feet and said loftily. “Well, I can’t speak for Severus, but I assure you that _I_ am not interested in Potter. He is barred from my bed and, to be brutally honest, from my presence. I don’t even wish to converse with him.”

 

Then he turned on his heel, leaving two gaping Gryffindors behind, and walked out of the dormitory. Draco was grateful he at least wouldn’t need to find the showers. He was still a prefect and could therefore still use the prefect’s bath. When he got there, he frowned at the door for a moment, wondering if the password was the same as in his world. He didn’t see why it _wouldn’t_ be, but one could never be sure. Still, he didn’t have a lot of choices.

 

Draco pursed his lips for a moment, then said. “Citrus burst.” The door didn’t open and Draco growled, wishing he could hex something until he felt better.

 

“Gotten locked out?” Came a drawling, sardonic voice from behind Draco.

 

The former-Slytherin stiffened and turned, relaxing when he realized it was Hufflepuff’s prefect from his year. “Just give me the password, Zach. I’m in no mood for games.”

 

Zacharias Smith looked surprised; his arms fell away from his chest and he straightened away from the wall with a small sound of confusion. Then he seemed to get angry and snapped. “So you can give it to Potter again and have him in here for your...your _sordid little affair?_ I don’t think so, Malfoy.”

 

“Oh for Salazar’s sake...” Draco muttered crossly. In his world, he and Zach were...not friends, but not hostile, at least. The boy had a mean streak Draco appreciated. “I’m not speaking to Potter just now, let alone shagging him, so if you could just let me in I would _really_ appreciate it.” Giving the Hufflepuff his best puppy-dog eyes, Draco added softly. “ _Please_ , Zach?”

 

Zacharias hesitated for a moment, then huffed in annoyance. “Fine.” He walked up to the door and leaned in, whispering just loud enough for Draco - who was right next to him - to hear. “Lemon Zest.” The door swung open and he gestured to it, biting out sharply. “There you go. But if I found out you brought Potter in, I’ll...”

 

“You’ll _what_ , Smith?” Harry’s frosty voice broke into the conversation and fear chased scorn and anger from Zach’s face in an instant. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to speak to Draco. _In private.”_

 

Draco sneered. “Not in the mood, Potter. Go find someone else to stroke your over-inflated ego.” Then he turned around, grabbed Zach’s arm, and dragged the other boy inside the bathroom with him. He slammed the door shut behind them, right in Harry’s face, and smirked. “Well, this ought to be interesting.”

 

Meanwhile, Zach was panicking. “Are you _trying_ to get me killed, Malfoy?” He turned to open the door and froze with a whimper of fear when Draco turned his wand on him. “Please...” He whispered, trembling faintly. “He’ll kill me. You _know_ that.”

 

“Oh for the love of everything, just sit on a bench and keep your mouth _shut_.” Draco snarled; he was really getting fed up with everyone. “Potter won’t hurt you. He’s got no reason to. And would you just call me Draco? We’ve known each other since we were small children, even if we’re not precisely _friends._ ”

 

Draco shot a spell at the door to keep Zacharias in, then walked around the tub, hitting the correct taps and lining up his bath products the way he liked them. Then he turned his back on Zach and stripped, being careful to keep his arm close to his body. He didn’t need Zach running his mouth to anyone. Once he was naked, Draco slipping into the water, ignoring the feel of the Hufflepuff’s eyes on him. He knew he was gorgeous and being stared at had never bothered him in the slightest.

 

It wasn’t until he’d finished washing his hair that he realized there was something _off_ about the way Zach was watching him. Tensing, he spat. “What, Zach? Have I got some unsightly blemish I don’t know about or something?”

 

Zacharias bit his lip, then whispered. “You’re missing a scar is all. I don’t...I mean, Potter wouldn’t have let you heal it. And you wouldn’t have wanted to.” When Draco just stared at him blankly, Zach flushed and mumbled. “You know...the one on your left hip that matches the one on his left hip. From the first time you flew tandem and you crashed. Everyone knows about it; you two were in the hospital wing for a week.”

 

Draco nodded, then shrugged carelessly. “Yes, well. Scars are unsightly, common things. I don’t see why anything should mar the perfection that is my body.”

 

Vaguely distracted, Draco reached for another bottle and heard Zach gasp softly. He huffed out a breath and flung out his hand, Summoning his wand and training it on the other blonde in an instant. “Do I need to Obliviate you?” He snapped coldly. “Or can you hold your tongue?”

 

Zach licked his lips, then muttered. “Pretty sure _that_ is marring your skin, Draco.”

 

Draco laughed, a bleak sort of sound. “Yes, well.” Then he cast his eyes down to the water and murmured. “I know spying isn’t generally something I’d be allowed to do, considering my age, but I just feel like we’re not doing enough to win this war. And the Headmaster and my mother and I discussed this. But it’s _got_ to stay a secret.” Knowing he couldn’t tame this Harry on his own, he added. “Potter isn’t too pleased.”

 

“Not too surprised there.” Zach bit out, shaking his head. “I mean, he views you as his personal property and everyone knows it. Can’t imagine the Dark Mark thrilled him.” Then he locked eyes with Draco and added softly. “And of course I won’t tell. I just can’t believe you’re really fighting with Potter.”

 

“He needs to take this war more seriously.” Draco retorted, a bit more sharply than he’d intended. “He’s acting like it’s all a lark or like it’s a guarantee. It’s _lives._ He needs to stop acting like a child. He needs to stop playing prince. And he needs to get down from his pedestal and _do something_.”

 

“Well.” Zach cleared his throat, looking away as Draco finished rinsing and began to climb out of the tub. “I just hope you know what you’re doing. Potter is far from stable.”

 

“I can handle Potter.” Draco retorted dismissively as he toweled off. “And honestly, if you lot all stopped cowering before him, he wouldn’t be anywhere near so bad.”

 

Zach didn’t reply, but Draco hadn’t expected him to.

 

When he finished dressing, he opened the door to find a fuming Harry Potter glaring at them. Draco shook his head and sneered. “Really, Potter. Isn’t stalking a bit beneath you? Go find some witless fanboy to shag; my arse is currently off-limits to you.”

 

Zacharias crept out behind Draco and slunk off down the hallway, looking guilty. Harry shot a venomous glare at his back, then Draco snapped. “Focus, Potter! I’m the one you’re pissed at. Zach did nothing wrong. I just wasn’t leaving him out here with you because you’d have just bullied the bloody password from him and I’d have gotten no peace.”

 

Harry’s glare shifted to Draco and he moved forward, swiftly backing Draco into a wall. “You listen to me, Draco. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not amused. So knock it off.”

 

“Not everything is a game, Potter.” Draco’s reply was quiet, but firm. “Now, if you want to stop acting like the biggest prat in the world and focus on saving everyone instead of basking in your own self-proclaimed glory, then fine. I’ll reconsider my decision at that point. But while lives are at risk and you’re off doing fuck-all whatever, you’ll keep your filthy hands to yourself.”

 

Then, with three swift, fluid movements, he brought Harry to the floor, cringing in pain. “So I’m warning you for the last time, Potter. Touch me again while you’re still treating the safety of the Wizarding World like it’s beneath your notice and you’ll spend two weeks in Madam Pomfrey’s care. _Hands off.”_

 

Draco turned and stalked off, more weary than anything else. His Potter was so much easier to handle than this one; it was like dealing with himself, to a degree. This was _not_ going to be easy.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Draco managed to avoid Harry for the rest of Monday, and all of Tuesday, but Wednesday - Christmas Day - brought everything crashing down around Draco before breakfast was even served.

 

As he ran into the hospital wing, Hermione hot on his heels, everything in him was frozen in shock. The room contained more people than Draco had _ever_ seen in the Infirmary at once, especially considering only one person was injured. Draco didn’t hesitate to shove his way past the teachers, the Hufflepuff prefects, or the privacy curtain around the bed. When he burst into the little space, he froze. Everything in him clenched and knotted and he made a low, distressed sound.

 

Heads turned and Draco moaned; the sound was low and anguished. “Oh Salazar, this is all my fault...” He was shocked to feel tears stinging his eyes as he stared at the bruised, broken, and shattered form of Zacharias Smith.

 

All Draco knew - all he and Hermione had been told when they’d been summoned - was that a Gryffindor student had attacked a Hufflepuff prefect. The student in question had been tied to one of the Quidditch goal posts and left there, while every Bludger in the broom shed - a grand total of 5; two sets and a spare - pummeled into him. No one was sure how long  the student had been there, only that his parents had been brought in to discuss a transfer to St. Mungo’s.

 

When Draco had heard the name of the student, his heart had stopped. He knew it was Harry who had done this; he knew it with a certainty that frightened him. Now, staring at Zach, who was bruised and unconscious and under more than a few spells - stasis spells on various injuries and a  sensory-deprivation sphere, which glimmered around him - Draco found he couldn’t breathe. Zach had been unconscious when he’d been found and he hadn’t woken up yet. Madam Pomfrey felt the care he required was far beyond her skills and wanted him transferred immediately. Honestly, Draco couldn’t believe the boy was still alive.

 

Draco locked eyes with Zach’s parents - who were in the same elite social circle as his own parents - and whispered. “I’m _so_ sorry. This is...” His breath caught and he swallowed hard before continuing. “This is my fault. I knew he was jealous but I didn’t know he would...I never imagined he’d do something like this. I thought he would take his anger out on _me.”_

 

Mrs. Smith’s blue eyes narrowed and she asked stiffly. “Are you telling me you know who did this to him, Draco? Because no one will tell us anything. I want them to pay for this. I want them expelled!”

 

Draco blew out a trembling breath, then murmured. “I need to speak with the Headmaster.” He stepped over to the bed for a moment, lightly brushing his fingers over Zach’s dishwater-blonde hair. He had known the boy for most of his life; it was horrible to think he’d caused this, even indirectly.

 

“I’m so sorry, Zach.” Draco said softly, though he knew Zach probably couldn’t hear him. “I’ll make him pay for this. Promise.”

 

Draco shook his head, waving off the questions Mr. and Mrs. Smith were flinging at him. Then he stepped back out into the pandemonium of the main room of the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey was explaining Zach’s injuries to two Healers and a transport team from St. Mungo’s. Hermione, Sally-Anne Perks, - who was Hufflepuff’s female prefect from their year - Professor McGonagall, Professor Sprout, and Dumbledore were all gathered in a little group. Harry was standing, arms folded across his chest looking insolent and bored at the same time, just a little ways away from them. McGonagall, Sprout, and Dumbledore all looked weary and troubled. Hermione looked horribly upset. Sally-Anne looked _furious._ Which, now that he thought about it, was right where Draco was at as well.

 

He stormed over to the group, but didn’t pause. He walked right up to Harry and, without even stopping to think, did a mid-level roundhouse kick. It slammed into Harry’s side, just at hip-level, and Harry hit the floor a few seconds later.

 

Glaring down at him, Draco snarled. “You are _pathetic._ You pick on people who are too afraid to stand up to you; too afraid to fight back. Well guess what, Potter? _I_ am fighting back. I am standing up and staring you down and I will do my _damnedest_ to put you in your place. So before you attack anyone else, keep in mind that I’ll be right there, ready to take you on again. Because Potter, _you do not_ _scare me.”_

 

While Harry curled around himself on the floor, cursing under his breath at the bruising force of Draco’s kick and glaring murderously up at the blonde through his fringe, Draco turned to face the others. Sally-Anne was gaping at him, but Hermione had an approving smile on her face. The teachers and Headmaster seemed torn between applause and scolding, so they simply stared. Draco raised his chin in stubborn defiance; he had done exactly what he needed to do and he wouldn’t apologize for it. Just because they were all cowering before Harry didn’t mean _he_ was going to.

 

“Professors; Headmaster.” Draco inclined his head slightly. “As Gryffindor prefect for my year, I’d like to exercise my right to suggest a punishment.”

 

Minerva blinked, startled, then shook her head. “That won’t be necessary, Draco. We’ve already decided on Mr. Potter’s punishment.”

 

“And it won’t stick!” Sally-Anne protested, stomping her foot and clenching her hands into fists. “He’ll just do whatever he pleases anyway and you all know it!”

 

Minerva sighed, looking vexed. “As I told you, Miss Perks, we will do everything possible to ensure that Mr. Potter sticks to his punishment.”

 

“What’s his punishment?” Draco demanded sharply.

 

Hermione cleared her throat and whispered. “Because he used Quidditch things, they’ve decided they’re going to ground him.”

 

Draco considered this for a moment. It was really a fair punishment. Grounding a student meant not-only no Quidditch, but no flying _at all_. It was a harsh punishment for someone like Harry, who loved to be on a broom, but considering he really ought to be expelled, it wasn’t unreasonable. It also wasn’t going to stick; not in this world. Sure, Umbridge had managed it in _his_ world, but this Harry was different. And while they could certainly bar Harry from games, there was no denying he would fly anyway.

 

“It’s fair.” Draco finally said, then he added. “And Perks is right; it won’t stick.”

 

Albus turned twinkling blue eyes on him. “And what do _you_ suggest, Draco?”

 

He hesitated; he had no way of knowing if they would agree. Draco found himself wishing Severus was there so he had _some_ support at least. Knowing no such support would be forthcoming, Draco finally spoke. “I suggest we simply remove one of the problems from the school entirely.”

 

Everyone gaped at him, and Harry gasped out a protest from the floor - _‘Excuse you? What the fuck?’_  - but Draco ignored him and continued. “You can’t expel Potter. Everyone here knows that and everyone knows _why_. But there’s two halves to the problem. Potter...and Quidditch.”

 

Minerva gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Sally-Anne and Hermione looked confused. Albus looked delighted. Sprout just frowned. “I don’t understand, Mr. Malfoy. Isn’t banning Mr. Potter from flying what we’ve suggested?”

 

“I’m suggesting we just get rid of the problem altogether.” Draco retorted. “You know you won’t be able to keep Potter off a broom so long as there are brooms here at Hogwarts. And he’ll likely manage to get his hands on a Snitch as well. So I say we just get rid of it all. Clearly it’s too dangerous to have Bludgers and the like around Potter and since we can’t get rid of _him...”_

 

Draco trailed off and Harry shoved himself up onto his knees with a furious snarl, despite the pain it was clearly causing him; Draco was willing to bet Harry’s hip was already bruising. “You can’t just get rid of the brooms and Quidditch things!” He snapped.

 

“And why not?” Draco retorted, giving Harry a cold look. “Quidditch wasn’t _always_ played here, you know, and flying is only taught to First Year students and only at the beginning of the year. No reason it can’t be done with brooms brought in just for the lessons. And there’s no reason students can’t be told their brooms must stay _at home_ from now on. Plenty of things are banned; this would just be one more.”

 

Minerva was looking between the stubborn set of Draco’s jaw, the furious look on Harry’s face, and the speculative light in Dumbledore’s eyes. “Albus, surely you aren’t considering this!”

 

Albus turned on her with a solemn look, but twinkling eyes. “And why not, Minerva? Clearly our current methods of punishment are not working. Harry continues to flout the rules with abandon. Desperate times call for desperate measures, after all.”

 

“But Albus!” It was Sprout protesting now. “Surely you wouldn’t punish the entire school! It is not _their_ fault Mr. Potter is out of hand!”

 

“Isn’t it?” Draco cut in sharply. “Isn’t it _everyone’s_ fault? I haven’t seen anyone stand up to him since...” He cut himself off; he’d been about to say ‘ _since I got here’_ and that just wouldn’t do. He changed directions quickly. “The only way to keep Potter’s feet on the ground it to keep _everyone’s_ feet there. Perhaps when everyone realizes that letting Potter do as he pleases will result in everyone feeling the effects, they will be more willing to put an end to this nonsense!”

 

Albus inclined his head. “I am sorry to say it, but I fear Draco is correct.” He turned those dancing blue eyes on a fuming Harry, peering at him over his glasses. “Harry, I’m sorry it has come to this, but things are clearly out of hand. You could have killed Mr. Smith. I will make the announcement at lunch; Quidditch and flying are hereby prohibited at Hogwarts. Any student caught with broom, bat, or ball will have it confiscated and be subject to further punishment.”

 

Harry was trembling with anger as he pushed himself to his feet with a wince. He glared at Draco. “You’ll regret this, Draco. I promise you that.”

 

“Mr. Potter.” Minerva’s voice was stern. “Do _not_ threaten another student! Especially so fast on the heels of your last offense. Is that clear?”

 

When Harry didn’t even acknowledge his Head of House, Albus said softly. “We will reinstate Quidditch and re-allow flying when you have proven you can handle it. Or else upon your graduation.”

 

Harry glared at them all for a moment, then stormed out, limping slightly. Draco felt a smug sense of satisfaction from that fact.

 

“We’ll have a rebellion on our hands, Albus, when the students hear.” It was Minerva who made the dire prediction, looking worriedly after Harry.

 

“No.” Draco retorted, smirking. “We’ll have a _mutiny._ And not a moment too soon, if you ask me.”

 

Minerva turned shrewd eyes on Draco and said quietly. “You seem quite different these last few days, Mr. Malfoy.” When Draco flicked his eyes away, she added gently. “But I find the changes to be for the better and I must say, whatever the cause, I am grateful. And I hope it’s catching.”

 

Draco blew out a breath and muttered. “Me, too, Professor. Me, too.”


End file.
